Age Appropriate
by sleep-dealer
Summary: Good friends are hard to find, harder to leave, and impossible to forget. 100 Themes, Seifer/OC.


"I guess when you're young, first impressions are everything. Sometimes you miss who a person really is."

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**01. Introductions**

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The first few times the boy in blue waved the struggle bat, he'd had no problems. He would strike swift, knocking his opponents back in a storm of well trained strength and agility, as could be expected from a struggle enthusiast. That is to say, the first few times, he'd been battling weighted barrels in our back yard, the difference here being that inanimate targets don't hit back. They don't really have much choice in the matter.

The victor of this match, on the other hand, looks quite pleased with his decision to give the boy in blue a run for his money, thrusting his bat up into the air with righteous enthusiasm so the crowd can faun over him like a pack of drooling dogs. This is just the way stuff works in Twilight Town, I guess. Not much different from home, when you get right down to it.

So much for starting over.

The sandlot is decked out with posters of the tournament's signature symbols: the bat, and the orbs. The pudgy referee stands guard over the struggle trophy (which I guess won't make it to our mantlepiece this year after all), keeping the microphone a little too close to his mouth, so all we hear is the drull of his voice and a bit of feedback instead of actual words. He names the only competitor left standing. The crowd chants in response:

"Seifer! Seifer!"

The sound makes me itch all over.

Not gonna lie, Simon got himself beat pretty bad. Those bats aren't meant to do too much damage, but animals like Seifer Almasy aren't supposed to be playing close contact sports either. He won by a landslide, coming out on the other side with almost all of the orbs strapped to his vest and no visible scratches. Now he's just reaping the benefits; the chicks here seem to dig human tanks.

As the center of attention steps down from the ring to accept his awards for beating his fellow combatants to writhing shit piles, I hoist myself up on to the platform and drop to my knees at my brother's side.

Simon wipes his nose on his forearm, taking a thin line of fresh blood away from his face.

"Craaap," he whines. His voice sounds a little funny, like he's trying not to sneeze. "Almasy kicked my ass."

"Yep." Just like last season. "Need some help?"

"Please."

Simon fastens his arm around my neck and uses me as a crutch. My unprofessional, final diagnosis: twisted ankle, shiner in the making, busted lip, broken nose. This is familiar enough, I'm not worried. He'll be fine in a week, just in time for school.

We have to take the steps slow on the way down. I'm not looking forward to the trek home, but I really should be used to it by now. Simon pauses to adjust his shoe, and then we're off, our backs to the scene, as they ought to be. Seifer's not one to throw a match, and Twilight Town's not keen on straying from routine. This was inevitable. I don't know why Simon still comes back here after the first two seasons, and I don't know why he still has to drag me along.

Maybe because I'm the only one that still roots for him. There used to be a few others that called out for him, convinced that the rookie could make a name for himself, but it's all about the champion again, making his victory speech.

I don't catch the self indulgent monologue in its entirety, but one thing in particular stands out: "This is a man's sport."

It cuts so deep that I stop long enough to watch him gloat from over my shoulder. He looks right at us.

"Ignore him," says Simon.

"He's getting personal," I reply. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"It's not personal, Sydney. How could he possibly know?"

I guess that's true. We keep the whole thing under lock and key. Not even our parents know yet, and I haven't breathed a word. There's no way Seifer's remark was that specific. Even still...

"Why are you defending him?"

"He's just being Seifer."

"He's pure evil."

That makes Simon laugh, but he stops short and makes a gurgling sound through his nose that makes him groan and swipe away more blood. Definitely broken. Definitely Seifer's work.

We start the uphill climb back to the residential district and avoid our parents when we get home. He'll complain about his nose and get Dad to drive him to the hospital tomorrow, agreeing not to let Mom in on the entirety of the story lest she pop a lung. For now it's just us and a first aid kit in the downstairs bathroom. I wipe off his face, get an ice pack for his ankle and send him off to bed like a good sister, all the while contemplating the stressful monotony of our situation.

I'm restless. I'm bored. One more struggle match and I think I'll have to set the sandlot on fire. This place is just as drab and uninteresting as the people in it. It's all the same. We're slipping into their routine. Seifer's routine.

Once Simon's door is shut, I go to sleep myself with troubling thoughts that aren't exactly age appropriate.

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**Feedback appreciated. :)**


End file.
